


Force Distribution

by fadeverb



Series: Leo [26]
Category: In Nomine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeverb/pseuds/fadeverb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo gets to supervise a hostage exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Force Distribution

The most annoying type of argument to get into with my partner is one where he breaks out the pragmatic and sensible reasons for me to do what he says and he's absolutely right. There's just nowhere to go with an argument like that. I'm still capable of winning one where he's in the right, but it sort of takes the fun out of things.

I gave in after about ten minutes of increasingly vitriolic debate and one minor bribe. This could've been resolved to about the same effect by my just saying "Yes, I suppose you're right," but it's the principle of it. If Zhune is going to make me walk up to angels and have conversations with them yet again, I get to point out that this is not my idea and I don't want to do it and we should come up with a better plan.

We did not come up with a better plan, and here I am. Off to chat with the enemy again.

The morning is cold and gray, with fog not so much creeping around on little cat feet as attempting to soak through the legs of my jeans. The rolling suitcase squeaks every time its left wheel makes a full rotation. Given the pace I'm going, that is a lot of squeaking rising out of the fog behind me as I drag this thing along. Zhune would just carry it; given the weight of its contents, it's getting dragged. And this way the angels can't possibly think I'm trying to sneak up on them and do anything nefarious, if the cheery yellow fabric of the suitcase weren't proof enough of that. I would not be caught dead using this equipment on an actual proper Theft job.

Which this is not. A proper Theft job would involve _sneaking_ into a Tether, or at least arriving unannounced, or if nothing else arriving while not having sent word ahead of being a demon showing up at a particular time for an appointment. A proper Theft job would involve _stealing_ something.

I have a suitcase full of something the angels want, and I am walking into a Flowers Tether to do a nice polite hand-over for something the demon hiring us wants. It's entirely wrong. That's Trade work, not ours. But apparently once you've already had to go asking Theft for something appropriate to trade back for what you want, it seems simplest to ask us to handle the swap as well.

That, and apparently our client is under the impression that if he walks into a Flowers Tether he'll never get out alive. What that implies about either his sanity or history I couldn't say.

Trees loom ahead. They're probably quite nice trees in good lighting, but on a dark and foggy morning the impression is more ominous than peaceful. A gust of wind hisses through the branches and catches at my jacket, which is too thin for this weather. August should not contain temperatures like this under any circumstances. Or so my early experience on the corporeal suggested; it turns out that other parts of this continent feel differently about the matter.

A squirrel chatters at me from a branch as I walk between the trees. Sounds like it's not happy about something. Probably me. I give it a jaunty wave, and continue along the stone path. Now that I'm dragging the suitcase along an irregular surface, the squeaking has been joined by a clattering thump every time I yank it across another crack. At this rate a wheel will break off before I get to the Tether proper.

The squirrel leaps from branch to branch, following me and rushing ahead of me in turn. It stops at a tree where the path splits and makes some more insulting comments. And...gestures. Never seen that from a squirrel before.

"That's not very peaceful," I tell it. The informational placard in front of me shows a map of the grounds, with a Wildlife Discovery Center and Gazebo and Restrooms and other exciting attractions in both directions. "Left or right?"

After one more distinctly rude gesture, the squirrel dashes off to the left. I follow, trailed by squeaking all the way.

The park isn't open to visitors at this time of the morning. That didn't exactly stop me from coming inside, and it doesn't seem to have stopped anyone else from doing so, either, because there's more than one person waiting for us beside a big building marked out for--some sort of educational thing. Poking butterflies, petting trees, whatever it is Flowers has kids do. (Fail to keep them from being kidnapped by the War, in my experience, not that I'm bitter or anything.) In any case, none of the people waiting for me are children, or even wearing the vessels of such.

The squirrel scurries down a tree trunk and through the grass to climb onto the shoulder of a woman whose tall and narrow build could not scream Seraph any harder if it tried. As with most Seraphim, she has an intent gaze as I approach, though I've never been sure why those things go together; their resonance is built on truth, and that's mostly auditory. Unlike most Seraphim I've run into, she's wearing flowers in her hair. She stands in the front of the group, no doubt radiating peace and love and other annoying things which I'd notice on my approach if I weren't already hauling this suitcase around.

To either side of her stand what I presume are more angels. A stocky man with roughly cut blond hair, and he's as much Cherub as she is Seraph, in stance and vessel shape both. (Or so I'm assuming. They could all be other than what they seem, and it's high on the list of why I don't like this setup.) The third person in this group I can't place yet--compact, dark, probably female--and that may just mean she's a Soldier. Or a Kyriotate. Or--does it matter? They're not going to jump me here.

But they're probably going to be really annoying about it.

"Welcome," says the Seraph, once I'm in polite speaking distance. "Please sit down. None will harm you here, as you do no harm."

There's a table set out, plenty big for two but a little cramped for four. It's wrought iron, all leaves and vines done up in metal, and reminds me of the table on Ash's balcony. (Except his is smaller, lighter, and probably cost ten times as much.) "I sort of figured that," I say, flopping down into the chair nearest me, "what with the massive peace-and-love aura irradiating the place. Could we get this over with?"

The Seraph sits across from me, while the Cherub and the third angel--for the sake of a mental tag and sensible risk assessment, I'll assume she's an Elohite, with all the annoying resonance that comes with one--flank the two of us. The squirrel remains on the Seraph's shoulder, and makes another rude gesture at me.

"Hey," I tell it, "watch your language. It's not my fault you tried to jump someone who was ready for you. Are you even allowed to say things like that, in Flowers?"

"To date," says the Cherub dryly, "impolite hand motions aren't considered violent enough to be dissonant. Did you bring the artifact?"

I slouch lower in the chair. "Yes. Did you bring the hostage?"

"He's not a hostage, exactly," says the maybe-Elohite. "He's a prisoner of war, and has been treated appropriately."

"Broken kneecaps and fingers?" I smile cheerily at the horrified expression I get out of the Seraph. "I'm making reasonable assumptions based on my last experience with being pinned down in a Tether by angels. But I guess you folks handle it differently. Can I see him?"

The squirrel shrills at me, and bounds across the table to gesticulate furiously in my direction.

"Peace, Domination," says the Seraph. "She does have the artifact." The squirrel glares at me, but returns to her shoulder. "Will you deal with us fairly?"

"Fair," I say, "is a very fuzzy concept. But I intend to free your fuzzy friend if I get the hostage back in reasonable condition, yes. Is this guy here going to jump me the instant I walk out of range of your peace waves?"

"I will not," says the Cherub, not sounding very happy about it. I don't think he's part of Flowers, just hanging out with them. Creation, maybe. Certainly not Animals. I can't remember who else gets along with this Word; it doesn't seem to be very popular in Heaven.

In any case, I look to the Seraph for confirmation. (And maybe she's not a Seraph, and maybe they're all lying to me, but there are practical limits to paranoia if I want to get any job done.) "He will not jump you," she says, "nor follow you, assuming, again, that you cause no mischief while you're here."

I'm pretty sure I cause mischief just by existing, according to some angelic standards. Malakim have always seemed pretty clear on that front. (That one truly bizarre encounter with a Malakite of Fire aside.) "I'll see what I can do." That gets a blink from the Seraph, which really makes me wonder what she picked out of that statement. "Here. Cards on the table."

I lean over and unzip the suitcase, then haul out the artifact inside. It's a big chunk of rough-cut quartz, bound in brass. The demon who loaned it to us--and was very clear on wanting the artifact back when we're done--said it's an antique, which explains the weight. These days you can get Force Catchers that dangle on a pendant and hide under your shirt, if you don't mind paying through the nose for them. Elegant or tidy or _conveniently portable_ this is not, but apparently it was still sturdy enough to pick up most of a Kyriotate that tried to grow its way through someone's wall into a private area. Idiot Kyrio. Everyone knows you should do recon before that sort of thing.

The table clangs when I drop the artifact in the center. My arms ache, too, but let's not mention that part in the presence of hostile strangers. The squirrel squeaks, and tries to hug the artifact, or claw at it: I can't tell which when it's got those stupid adorable little squirrel hands to work with. "There," I say. "Eight Forces of Kyriotate, as requested. So where's the Habbie? I'm ready to swap--" Because like hell am I going to call it a trade, and just imagine what Penny would think of this idiot setup. "--when you're handing him over and I'm sure he's in about the same condition he used to be in."

"I hardly think this is fair," murmurs the Cherub, with a sidelong look at the Seraph. "All Corax was doing was investigating some noise, and we're handing over a Habbalite that was trying to undermine our Tether."

"I agree," I say. "Eight Forces of Kyrio for eight Forces of Habbie is fair on the surface, but having a portable peace generator to wheel around is a lot more useful than anything an idiot Punisher could get up to. I'd rather keep what we've got and leave the kid in your hands."

Probably I'm not supposed to say that, as it rather undermines my theoretical negotiating position, but it was worth it just for the way the angels are staring at me. Even the squirrel. I smile winningly back at them. If Zhune didn't want me to do the negotiations my way, maybe he should've taken this part of the job himself. Despite the admittedly reasonable argument that this vessel has been seen by a few dozen angels at this point anyway, while his current vessel is still mostly unknown in the Tether circuit.

"For God's sake," says the maybe-Elohite, "let's just give that demon back and get Corax out of there."

The Cherub stands up. "I'll go get him," he says, and fixes a stern look on me before he enters the building. It's the standard ominous warning for a potentially violent demon, but, really, what does he expect me to do? I'm not only sitting a meter away from a Seraph of Flowers, but there's nine Forces of Kyriotate with the same attunement on the table. If Sean walked up to me right now, about the best attack I could manage would be to get verbally offensive.

"So," I ask the Seraph, while the other two angels stare at the Force Catcher, "how's the whole Flowers thing working out for you? Found a work-around for the whole ranged weapons thing yet?"

She adjusts her crown of flowers, and looks impossibly serene in all this mist and cold. "Trees have many uses," she says, which I gather is not quite as much of a non-sequitur as some might take it for. "How do you like working for Theft?"

"Can't complain," I say brightly. Not _entirely_ to watch her wince, but it's sort of a perk. Half the fun of Seraphim is seeing the faces they make when you say something blatantly untrue.

The Cherub returns with his hand on the collar of another man. Young, red-headed and pale-skinned, pretty even with messy hair and clothing he's been wearing for days straight... Yeah, that's our favorite hostage. The Habbalite is frog-marched right up to the seat the Cherub left, and pushed down to sit there. Gently, I suppose, but without any room for twitching away and fleeing.

"Right," I say, and try to ignore the growing headache as I contemplate needing to hold onto this kid for the next several hours while we get him delivered back home. And we'll need to take an indirect route, at that, to make sure no one is following; his sponsor doesn't much want angels showing up on that doorstep. "Could I ask the holiest person here to confirm a few answers for me, while I run through the basics?"

"Certainly," the Seraph says. She is watching me rather more intently than is justified. Can't be over my job satisfaction answer; plenty of demons have a few quibbles with the Word they serve. "Please, go ahead."

I slouch lower in my chair, and match the Habbalite's surly look. "Your Band and Word?"

"Habbalite of Lust," he mutters, "and it's a _Choir_."

"The truth as he believes it," the Seraph says, with a sidelong glance for him in turn. Yes, let's put the attention on someone else here. And if she's a true Seraph, then at least they're not trying to plant a ringer with a look-alike vessel.

"Great," I say. "That's the important part. Do you still have the same number of Forces you had when the angels grabbed you?"

"Yes," he says. "When are we _leaving_?"

"Shut up and let the Seraph confirm your answers." I wait for her nod on that one. "I was hired to bring you back in the same condition you left, and if you're not up to spec, I'll need to ask for, I don't know, a toaster oven or something to make up for it. Any new dissonance?"

He hunches down in the chair, staring murderously at me. "That's none of your business."

"Honestly stated opinion," the Seraph supplies helpfully.

"I pretty much figured that one out. But thank you." Never hurts to be polite to angels, right? Whereas there's no point in being polite to Habbalah unless they're in an active and current position of power over you, and even then it usually doesn't help. "None of my business probably means yes, so tell me how much and what kind."

I don't have to tell him how much trouble he'll be in if it's Word dissonance. I wonder if the angels know how that would work out.

"Two," he says at last, staring at the table. "Choir dissonance." 

The Seraph sighs faintly, but says, "True to his knowledge."

"New Discord?"

"No!"

And that gets a nod from the Seraph too.

"And you don't appear to be missing any significant body parts," I say, "so unless you want to speak up about damage that isn't visible, we're good to go."

"I am _fine_ ," the Habbalite snarls. "Get me out of here."

"Sure," I say. "If you try to resonate me, I will start breaking bones. Not anything in your legs, because I am not about to carry you out of here along with this stupid artifact. But other bones, sure." I smile at the Seraph. "True?" She just stares at me. "Well, it _is_. Anyway." I place my hands on opposite sides of the cube. The lock for it is spoken in Helltongue, and I recite it as I was told. "I'm not touching this. I don't want it opened. I don't even know what's inside."

Which is, as I understand it, three notes of dissonance right there for any angel who wants to repeat the process and try to unlock this artifact themselves, if they even know Helltongue in the first place. The Habbalite just looks confused, which goes to show that they don't build them for the brains over in Lust.

The squirrel chitters in delight as eight Forces of Kyriotate lift up from the Force Catcher. The fuzzy image of a celestial body--something like a fluffier Shedite with more mouths and fewer tentacles--vanishes a moment later, as the Kyrio sinks into whatever new hosts it's finding. Grass and trees, maybe, given it's with Flowers. No one at the table twitches or blinks or shifts posture in a way that would suggest they were just taken over, and I was _watching_ on the Habbie.

"Lovely doing business with you," I tell the angels. "Let's not do it again." I wrestle the artifact off the table and into the suitcase again. When that's packed up, I tilt the handle towards the Habbie. "And off we go."

He's quiet for most of the walk back to the park gates. Me, I'm busy watching the fog thin on the ground and the branches of the trees wave around us in ways that the wind can't explain.

"The questions were unnecessary," he says at last. "What was the point of all that?"

"Exactly what I said. I wasn't about to trade--" It's not like I need to avoid the word entirely. Just, ha, the Word. "--something as useful as a portable anti-violence field for _you_ if I was bringing you back covered in Discord or missing Forces. Clients tend to pay less when that happens."

"I am one of the chosen of God within the ranks of Hell," he says tightly, "and you were merely trading back--a portion of an angel."

"You're a Habbalite dumb enough to try insidious Tether undermining on Creation, without telling your boss what you were up to, without any support or backup. Believe me, I did not come out ahead on that deal." I smile at him, more sharply than I had for the angels. "But look on the bright side. Your supervisor apparently really wants you back. Enough to go to all this trouble to get you freed. Don't you feel loved?"

He looks more like he might vomit out of sheer anxiety, though he's doing a fair job of trying to pretend otherwise. I could almost feel sorry for him. There aren't a lot of demons out there who reach a position of authority over smaller ones by being _nice_. Or understanding of mistakes. Or--any number of things.

"Just think," I say, "you've learned all sorts of valuable lessons. There are a few mistakes you've made recently that you'll never repeat. Ever again."

"No," he says firmly. "Next time, I'll do better. I'll be stronger."

Habbalah. What can you do?

#

If he tries to resonate either of us during the drive back to his supervisor's place, he does such a lousy job of it that neither of us even notices the attempt. Which is close enough to being on good behavior to count as the same thing. There's a bout of complaining when we detour to drop off the Force Catcher, but Zhune takes a few minutes in the back seat to explain why little Habbalah do not get to set our route, while I keep driving, and the kid stays pretty damn quiet after that.

At his supervisor's house, he drags his feet all the way up the long driveway. Which turns into Zhune marching him along with a hand to the collar, just like the Cherub did. It's an odd visual reminder, not least of which because Zhune's vessel is nothing like that Cherub's.

"It's so good to see you back," says the kid's supervisor--our client, and I think a Balseraph--on opening the door. He slides an arm around the Habbalite, and draws him inside. "What a mess you are. Go upstairs and get cleaned up, and I'll be right along."

When the Habbie's slunk away, the Balseraph invites us inside for drinks and payment, which Zhune accepts before I can ask to just cut it down to the latter. 

"How did it go?" the Bal asks, while we sit around a living room with enormous windows and pretend to admire the view. No one needs a lawn that large. "You're sure you weren't followed?"

"Perfectly," I say, which a Seraph might twitch at. "No one in a vessel, or we would've noticed, and Kyrios can't keep up with freeway speeds. He's a little dissonant, but otherwise in decent shape. Now there's a lucky break."

"Tell me about it," the Balseraph says, and sighs. "Trying to make a name for himself, before he's even reached nine Forces. I could nearly strangle him for it myself, and I might yet, except that it's such a hassle to replace lost vessels. I lose more apprentices that way..." He shrugs, and props his feet up on the coffee table. "Care to stay the night? He ought to express some gratitude to his rescuers."

"No thank you," I say, and try not to eye the suitcase with our payment too obviously. (Unlike the suitcase with the Force Catcher, this one isn't yellow. I bet it doesn't squeak, either.) "Maybe he could send a nice card."

"You really should stay," the Balseraph says. "It would be polite." Which is a good point. He leans in towards me, with a Liar's smile that's always a bit too convincing. "Besides, think of how that might look. You and my apprentice. The two of you practically match."

#

No matter what Zhune says, I did not run screaming. I politely declined and left promptly.

#

"And just think," Zhune says, some fifty miles away as the car drives, "you got to spend time chatting with angels again. Did they serve tea?"

"There was a tragic lack of beverages," I say. "Next time, you can go play with the Host."

"Still," Zhune says, "that didn't go badly at all."

Which I'm not entirely sure I agree with. I'd rather have one Force of Kyrio on my side than eight of Habbalite, given the chance. "Not too badly," I say, because agreeing readily will make Zhune suspicious, and I shouldn't be the only one annoyed by this job.


End file.
